


Ignition

by SourCherryBlossom



Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Despair, F/M, Kidnapping, Love, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-05-19 09:44:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5962756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SourCherryBlossom/pseuds/SourCherryBlossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Begins S5 e3, "Super Powers" at the end where Quinn knocks Carrie out cold.</p><p>I've always thought Quinn had a darker side, and two more years in Syria didn't help him any.  What would have happened if he'd lost control of himself while he had Carrie tied to the bed in the Quinncave?  I've always wanted to explore Quinn as a less-nice guy, not to mention, write a bit more gratuitous smut.</p><p>Rated Mature for swearing, and obviously, for smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Quinn cursed, looking down at the limp figure on the ground below him.  
  
              He stood and stretched his back, then massaged the hurt spot where Carrie’s bullet had ricocheted off his Kevlar vest.  It was the highest grade of bulletproof riot gear that he could acquire; still, Carrie must have been off her game after a few years as a civilian. If she’d been using armor-piercing ammo, he’d have been fucked.  He’d watched her roaming the cabin, slugging back liquor, and kept his eye on the tall blonde Aryan boyfriend until the dude bolted, having received a call about his kid being in custody.  He felt briefly pained at the fear he’d caused the kid and his mother, but then, the little bastard had tried to bite him.  Fuck it.  His objective was below, at his feet, breathing evenly.  
  
              He knelt, and placed three fingers on her carotid pulse. Carrie’s lids were pale, her lashes a black brush, long enough to sweep the tops of her cheeks.  Under his chilly fingers, her pulse thudded slow and steady.  He’d gotten the dose right.  He slung her rifle over his shoulder, then knelt again.  He gathered her slender form up in his arms, and stood.  Looking left and right, he hoisted her over a ditch and to the back of his waiting car, noting that she still was a lightweight.  He barely had to put forth any effort to lift her out of the woods.  Her head rolled back on his upper arm, her cheek in contact with the skin of his bicep, burning through his white shirt.  She felt hot on his cool flesh, making him shudder. As he reached the car, he tried to steel his heart, and told himself that could just toss her in the trunk. But then, the familiar knife wrenched inside him, and wincing at his own callous edge, he laid her gently in the back seat.  
  
              He took off, and drove carefully and inconspicuously back to his hideout in Berlin.  Parked and hid the car, then moved his gear inside.  Lastly, he picked up Carrie, still unconscious from the injection he’d given her.  Inside the hideout, he walked her over to the iron-frame twin bed he’d been using to crash these last few weeks. Laying her down on it, his eyes roved over her, top to bottom.  
  
              He considered what she’d do if she awoke, and he wasn’t paying attention.  She’d probably be up on her feet and fighting, maybe shooting, before he was even aware of it.  Carrie was an agent of many years of training and experience, and even if she decided not to kill him because she knew him from their shared past, she might shoot before she figured out who he was.  That’s what she was up to in the woods, after all.  
  
             He took a set of plastic cuffs and tied her wrists tightly to the iron bars of the old steel bedframe, the shape of it recalling prisons and insane asylums.  What those asylum workers could do their charges in the past was a disgrace, he thought.  Why, they had the residents at their mercy.  The  _things_ they could  _do_ to those people...  
  
               _Mercy_ , echoed an angry mole in his brain.   _She never showed me any mercy._  Quinn recalled her assignations with Brody, Ayaan, and even angrily considered the German boyfriend, the attorney.   _Everyone but me_ , his mind insisted.   _Me, who used to love her._  
  
            Her helplessness made him feel unhinged, suddenly.  His hand, seemingly of its own accord, slid down her slender arm, over her neck, testing the breadth of it.  Her neck was tiny.  He could have strangled her with one hand.  His hand continued its journey over her left breast, then passed over to the right. His other hand came up and joined it.  Without his own internal consent, his hands went on exploring Carrie’s figure.  He knelt next to the bed, on the floor, to be nearer to her.  
  
               _She’s insensible,_  ranted the better angel of Quinn’s nature.   _She can’t refuse you, she’s unconscious, asshole._ His hands ignored the moral dilemma and continued their journey over her upper body.  He raised her shirt, and turning her delicate figure easily, unsnapped her bra, and continued fondling her underneath it. It was blackly satisfying and violently arousing.  He continued to enjoy her soft breasts while resting his hard-on into the side of the bed mattress, beginning to apply pressure to himself rhythmically.  He looked under her shirt, watching himself fondle her in the half-darkness.  Grimly pleased that he finally knew what size and color her nipples were, he pinched them both tightly for a moment, and she moaned.  
  
              The sound she made snapped him out of it _.  What the fuck was he doing?_  Overtly aroused, panting, almost out of control, he yanked her shirt back down to her waist, stood up, and stalked away. Then, upon second thought, he came back to her, and carefully replaced her undergarments, clipping them shut with care.  He arranged her clothing so that she was covered, and lastly, softly, stroked her cheek with a single tender gesture of his thumb.  He shook his head hard.  
  
             Somewhere in the space between love and death, between shadow and sunlight, his emotions lay.  He was lost.  They were no longer in the deep freeze, though it had taken him years to stuff them down.  All he’d had to do is touch her skin, once, and he was a goner.  He longed to take her in his arms, kiss her, tell her that he loved her.  And two heartbeats later, he wanted to shake her awake, slap her until her teeth rattled, and ask how she dared walk away on him, and force her to take him in her mouth.  Two more heartbeats, and he was back to wanting to hear her say his name, moan it out, say she loved him.   He had killed many men and women in his life, but he’d never been closer to true insanity than right now.  
  
             He clenched both hands into fists, and walked farther away, towards a walled-off toilet area someone had carved out of the empty garage.  Placing both hands open, flat on the wall, he leaned into the hastily-hung drywall, and banged his forehead hard.  Eyes clamped shut, he did it again.  And again. Standing back, he looked in the mirror, and slapped himself hard on one cheek.  
  
             He turned his bloodshot eyes to the hazy bathroom mirror.  The sight of the red handprint rising on his cheek returned him to ragged self-control. Though still off-kilter, as if seen through a funhouse mirror, his ability to perceive his world leveled off, slowly. Quinn’s roiled emotions cooled down, and he decided he’d be ok to go within twenty feet of Carrie, at least long enough to make a cup of instant coffee.  
  
              His figure cast long black shadows through the gloom of the garage space, while Carrie tossed in her unconscious state, pulling at her bonds.  He sipped coffee and considered his image in the mirror as he watched her writhe from a spot where he’d be concealed if she awoke from the sedation.  
  
              The only thing wrong with that red mark, is it should have been the shape of her hand, not mine, he thought dazedly. Unconsciously, he passed a hand over his fly, massaging the firmness there up and down, once, and then again.


	2. Chapter 2

Quinn stood still in the rear of the garage, summoning his resolve not to do anything crazy. From a distance, he heard Carrie starting to move around on the bed. Her movement sounded deliberate and quick, like a startled animal. It was different than her drugged tossing and turning. He looked quickly, and saw that she was waking up. She lifted her head, and from the side, he could see her squinting upwards at the compact fluorescent bulb dangling from the ceiling chain. It made an unearthly hum as it cast a green glare down on the petite, curled-up lump her body made on the bed. He watched as she stretched out, tried to turn over, and then pulled at her bonds. She was just now realizing she was tied up, and suddenly her movements became panicky. Quinn didn't make a sound, but his heartbeat quickened.

He walked closer, saw her turning and looking, squinting, as she strained to focus her eyes. The last of the sedative was still wearing off. He could tell by the wobbly way she sat up. On the way by the workshop block that served as a makeshift cutting board, he ignored the steaming coffee and chose to grab the last few bites of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that he'd prepared the night before. It was dried out, but he didn't care. Nothing says, "I'm casual," like eating a snack while watching your would-be lover discover that she's tied to your bed. He felt an evil, cold streak come to the surface. _Here she is, all these years after throwing me away._ He came closer, though he still said nothing. Finally, she focused on him and spoke, her voice rusty from disuse.

"Quinn. Oh, Quinn. Thank God," she said fervently. He just stood and looked at her. He forced himself to lean back against the table, and took the last bite of the sandwich. He chewed mechanically, not tasting, not answering her. He was staring at her like she was a bug under a microscope, his expression cold. The look on her face went from one of relief, to a quizzical stare. _What was wrong with him? Why hadn't he answered?_

His stomach stirred, simply from hearing her voice. But he tried to retain his cool. He reached in his pocket, and took out a folding jackknife.

He knew from the start what he was going to do – help her fake a death-picture, and provide it to Saul via the mailbox, so she'd be safe for a period of time. Provide her a window to get away. But his previously roiled feelings, sexual and otherwise, conflicted with his white-knight intention to rescue her. He had her here, in his secret hideout. He didn't have to let her go yet, did he? One part of him wanted to fake the death photo and get rid of her, wash his hands of her, the beauty that had irreparably shattered his heart, and get back to his unfeeling existence. His more primal, possessive side wanted to fuck her immediately, unreservedly, with her ankles on his shoulders, maybe without untying her first. He unfolded the blade, and looked at it in the shining light.

"Quinn?" came Carrie's voice again. He looked down at her, haggard after her drugged night's sleep in the dank atmosphere. This isn't where she should be, he thought. She should be showering in a luxe suite somewhere, tucked up into soft cotton bedsheets and a feather duvet, resting and sipping hot tea. He should be massaging her shoulders and temples, helping ease the headache as the drug wore off. He shook his head sharply at the tender thoughts. She should be sitting on my face, his hindbrain ranted. He felt the urge to tear her blouse open, and fought it. Ramming his filthy feelings down deep, he instead turned the knife on himself.

Carrie, of course, hadn't missed a moment of the internal drama playing out in front of her. Though Quinn's face held no apparent emotion, she saw his hands quiver and his shuffling steps, and the way he was now avoiding her gaze. As he turned the blade towards the fat of his left hand, she called his name again, alarmed.

"Quinn!" she nearly shrieked. The fear in her voice seared him, went straight through him. He went down on one knee, and reaching up, used the blood streaming from his cut hand to paint a tale of murder on her cheek. "Quinn, no, no, no…" she trailed off. Her resistance aroused him even more.  He grimly held onto his self control, now stretched thin as a baby's hair under a fingernail, using nothing but denial and gut-strength. He fought the tenderness and lust back down with a gruffly uttered command. "Hold fucking still," he grated, and continued smearing. She stopped struggling and turning her head away, and looked back towards him.

Her eyes caught his, and he stopped smearing blood. His cut left hand cupped her chin, while his blood continued to drip down from his hand onto Carrie's lap, and splashing onto the bed next to it. Carrie saw that his eyes took on that look that they'd had two and half years before, right before he'd kissed her, the night of her father's funeral. Completely vulnerable, and passionately in love.

His eyes didn't leave hers. His right hand came up, and cradled her other cheek. Seeing a tear about to fall from her eye, the final barrier snapped, and he leaned in, and kissed her.

He could have made it strong and bruising, the hardest kiss he could manage, but he didn't. He still had enough self control to hold back on that kind of brute force. But he couldn't have stopped kissing her if he'd tried. He felt her recoil, even though he was relatively gentle. Then, God help him, she leaned into it, and kissed him back.

"Quinn," she moaned against his mouth, then opened to accept his tongue. His clean hand slid down to lightly caress her breast, which he had so recently explored without her consent. She pulled away again slightly, as he kissed down the side of her cheek, she whispered in his ear.

"What the fuck, Quinn, are you fucking nuts," she managed, her eyes closed, before he claimed her mouth again. Minutes went by with only the sound of their breath, the sound of skin on skin. He came down on both knees in front of her, got between hers.

Finally, she pulled back and demanded him to comply. "Fucking untie me," she said more forcefully, then he was back at her mouth, having her. She was still kissing him back, God only knew why. His right hand was on her throat, up caressing her face again, then back down on her lower back, pressing her into him. His left hand smeared his own lifeblood further, until it dripped back over her shirt and down her arm, dropping off her elbow onto the sodden bedsheet. _It's going to look like a fucking slaughterhouse in here,_ he thought. He was mouthing her neck, and then his hands went for his fly. She knew how to manipulate people, use them, that was for certain. Now it was his turn. He had her here, nobody knew where she was, and she was tied up. She belonged to him, and he could do what he liked. The hardness in his pants was so extreme that he felt if he didn't release it, he would just saw through his clothes, and hers.

He relinquished her mouth for the moment and was helping himself to the softness of her throat, when she said something brought his forceful affections to a sudden halt. There were tears in her voice. 

"Quinn, I missed you so much. Please," she quavered.  _I did that_ , he thought. It was a close thing, but it just enabled him to get control of himself.

He leaned back, left his top button undone, and knelt back to look at her, a blood-smeared mess, absolutely beautiful and desirable in spite of her exhaustion and the filth. A tear cut a hot, clean track down the blood on her right cheek.

"Please," she said again. "Let me go."

He knew if he didn't let her go now, any chance at all of being seen as a good guy would be over. He had no justification to keep her tied up at this point, not any longer. His cock throbbing, his mouth still alive with her kisses, he reached over and used the knife to cut the plastic ties. She immediately rubbed at the hurt spots. She had been pulling so hard that she was going to have bruises there. He wondered if she had done it in her sleep, or just now.

She looked back up at him as he came slowly to his feet, a more critical gaze this time.

"Quinn, what the fuck?" she asked reasonably. He shrugged, and reaching down, grabbed her wrists and pulled her to a stand. She sucked in her breath. He was a tenth of a second from pushing her back down on the bed, and finishing what he started. But he needed the photo first, he told himself. Breathing hard, almost panting, he backed her across the room, and pushed her into the corner of the garage, an anonymous stack of gray concrete block.

"Someone wants you dead," he said roughly, trying to regain control of himself, of her.

"Yeah, no shit," she said, sounding alarmed and pissed off at the same time. "But I don't know why."

He applied pressure to her shoulders until her back was flat against the wall. "You must have pissed someone off, crossed a line, somewhere," he said. She shook her head vigorously, hair flying and sticking in the drying blood on her cheek. _This is good, this is really good,_ he thought. _She's going to look just like a corpse_. But then, his stomach dropped at the thought.

"But who? Why?"

"Someone, probably very high up, you might never find out who."

"But who sent _you_ ," she asked, suddenly even more frightened.

Quinn squared Carrie's shoulders, his bleeding hand still soaking into her shirt.

"It was Saul," he said.

"No!" she cried, looking ready to weep again.

"It was Saul," he repeated pedantically. Her face crumpled. _Am I ever going to be done watching her cry?_ he thought.

"Now play fucking dead," Quinn insisted, and overpowered her, pressing down until her shoulders sagged. Carrie's knees collapsed, and she dropped to a folded crouch in the corner of the garage, her eyes closed. She held very still, seeming to hardly breathe, her expression going neutral as he took the picture.

His stomach turned over as he looked at the image on his phone. _I feel nothing,_ he told himself. _Nothing_.


	3. Chapter 3

Quinn folded the phone shut and threw it on a nearby worktable. He reached down and held his uncut hand out to Carrie. Looking up, she reached for him and grabbed on with both hands. Quinn hoisted her to a stand, and she stood there for a moment, looking stunned and trying to take it all in.

                “I don’t believe it,” she said again in a small, cracked voice. She was trembling, and the small distance between them seemed charged.

                He couldn’t take the proximity. He was about to do something irrational. He let go of her and turned to walk back to a sink which was positioned against an interior wall, under another buzzing compact fluorescent light fixture. He turned the water on, and started to wash his hands methodically, gritting his teeth, biting down for control. He didn’t look back or make eye contact with her at all.

                “You need to get ready, get out of here,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “You need to drop off the map.” He concentrated on his mission – not to kill but to protect, fake her death, and get her to move on fast, while the cover held. He sounded calmer now, at least to himself, and he felt more at ease too. At least he did for a minute: the calm held until he looked up and saw his image in the mirror.

                Blood. _Mine, thank God,_ he thought madly. His hair was standing on end in places, and his eyes looked wild. Blood was smeared here and there, on his cheek, neck, the side of his shirt, where he’d bled while he took the picture. Some of it had been smeared by the touch of her face, even though her hands had been bound. He reached over to a nearby towel rack and grabbed the gray washcloth that hung there. Rinsing it and wringing it out, he began scrubbing the blood off of himself, careful to lean in and only see his own image up close. If he made any kind of contact with Carrie, even eye contact through the mirror, he felt like he was going to turn and lose his restraint, and continue the... seduction... whether she wanted to or not. _She was kissing me back_. His hands trembled as he wiped his neck and around his forehead.

                Having turned to face him, she stayed back in the shadows. He couldn’t see her face, didn’t want to. Didn’t want to take in the hurt look they held. He was studiously avoiding eye contact, but he couldn't help but hear her voice.

                “It can’t be like you say. Saul would never hurt me. _You_ would never hurt me,” she declared.

                He looked sharply back, agitated, then turned and faced the mirror again.

                “Wouldn’t I?” he asked, as if it were truly in question. At that moment he was angry at her, angry for making him feel anything. He wanted to carry her to the bed over his shoulder like a caveman, here in his lair where he could show her exactly what his feelings were. He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled. Didn’t she know what his _job_ was? What he was capable of _doing_ to people?

 _People, maybe_ , his mind whispered. _But not her._

                She stepped back once, holding on to caution, but then took another few steps forward. He shuddered as both of her warm, soft hands landed on his shoulders from behind. He stood up and looked in the mirror at the blood-smeared figure standing beside him.

                “No, you wouldn’t,” she said softly, confidently. Her hands began stroking up and down the skin of his arms, setting off goosebumps on his entire body. He narrowed his eyes, looking at Carrie's reflection in the smudgy mirror.

                He shook his arms free, and stepping quickly behind her, put his hands on her shoulders in turn. He shoved Carrie up to edge of the sink, and thrust the wet washcloth into her hands. “Maybe I’m not who you remember,” he said, trying to sound aloof. “Clean yourself up.”

                She jerked her head up, giving a startled glance. Long fair hair still stuck to the blood on her cheek, and glowed in the dim, artificial light. What would that gorgeous hair look like clean, he wondered?

 _Like silk, silk the color of honey,_ his mind whispered. He clamped down on that thought like a vise grip, insisting that his brain shut the fuck up. He spun on his heel and walked off, started to dig through a duffel bag.

                Carrie gave a shuddering sigh, and started to run the water. She rinsed the washcloth, and when it was warm, used it to address the bloody mess on her face and neck.  Quinn had been cleaning up using ice-cold water. Better to suit his icy personality, she thought.

                Behind her, Quinn found what he was looking for – a can of first-aid spray. He shook the can and applied it to the cut, all the while sneaking peeks at Carrie out of the corner of his eye. She wasn’t crying, but she looked traumatized, dark circles standing out under her eyes. Well, that was no surprise. She hadn't slept for days, there was a hit out on her life, and if anyone else had gotten the message, she’d probably be dead by now – or, the assailant would, with a rifle round in the middle of his back. He knew better than to underestimate her; that’s why he had worn the vest.

                “Maybe you aren’t,” she conceded to the mirror. He looked up at her, catching her gaze. He put his hands on the high workbench on either side of his hips, and pushed down to lift himself to a seat.  He perched there, watching her from across the room. 

                “I’m not sure of anything anymore," Carrie continued. "Maybe Saul wants me dead. Maybe you’re not my… friend anymore. Jonas probably hates me, now. I wouldn’t blame him.” Sniffling, she rinsed the washcloth again and continued with her bloody work.

                From across the room, Quinn heard the tragedy in her voice, the despair. Her pain was the only thing that could have brought him outside his droning internal dialog of self-loathing.

                “Yeah?” Quinn said. He couldn’t tackle the “not my friend” part of that statement now, not now. He thought about Jonas instead. He’d been watching that hot mess through the cottage windows for a day and a night now, so he knew what the story was.

                “We had a terrible fight. I… went off my meds, I wanted to see if I could perceive things more clearly. I’m sharper when I’m not on them.”

                From what he remembered, that wasn’t true at all. But Quinn grunted noncommittally.

                “And I drank, and I snorted… whatever I could get. Things got out of control. Jonas and I, we got in an awful fight.” She must have been reviewing the situation for herself, because she didn’t seem to be talking to him. As for himself, Quinn couldn’t care less if Jonas took a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.

                “Jonas is not your problem right now,” Quinn said. “The guy they’re going to send after me, the one who doesn’t… know you. _That_ guy is your problem. You need to disappear.”

                “No,” Carrie said stubbornly.

                Quinn sighed. Here they went again. Carrie, being bullheaded, and he, continuing to argue his side. It had taken them exactly 15 minutes to resume their old working relationship. _For fuck’s sake._ He gritted his teeth harder.

                “I can’t,” she continued. “Go on the run, give up my daughter? No, I need to find out who really ordered this. Where did you get my name? How does this work?”

                Quinn described the dead drop in a dead voice. “I go to a mailbox, pick up an envelope. I use the newspaper, decode a name. I do the hit, get photo proof, put the phone in the box and pick up my money.”

                Carrie turned, mostly clean of blood. Quinn hopped down from the bench, and walked over to her. He stood facing her, about five feet away.

                “That’s awfully grim work for someone as skilled as you,” she said. “A waste of your talent.”

                Quinn snorted and shrugged. _Like she really cares. But then, maybe she does…_

  
                “So, you didn’t see Saul put my name in the box,” she queried. Quinn came two steps closer, and took the warm washcloth from her hands.

                “No,” he said, his voice going rough and low. He reached out, and using her upper arm, softly turned Carrie to face away. She stood quietly while he used the washcloth to wipe the back of her tricep, on the right, where there was a bit of blood she couldn’t see.

                “Quinn?” she asked.

                “You missed some,” he said, almost whispering. Quinn felt like they were two core rods in a reactor, about to go critical. He knew he was stupid to touch her again – his fuse was too short for this kind of ordeal. _Even so_ , he though.  It was an opportunity to put his hands on her skin. He tenderly cleaned her arm while she stood still for him. He almost held his breath while he waited for her to speak.

                When he was done wiping her, he still held her facing away. He tossed the washcloth across the 6-foot distance, into the sink, then settled his cut, bandaged hand on her other bare upper arm, standing behind her, breathing warmly onto the back of her neck.  He felt paralyzed.

                Carrie waited for him to say something else. When he didn’t, she twitched her shoulders, shaking him off, and took a few steps away, turning so she could see him.

                “Well. I have bigger problems, like you say.”

                Quinn turned away, and stepping over to the bench, grabbed his black jacket.

                “We need to go,” he said. “You ready?”

                “No fucking way,” Carrie said. He could see her eyes blazing in the gloom. “I’m not going anywhere until I see Saul put my name in the drop. Nothing in my life makes any fucking sense, that least of all. I’m not just going to fall off the face of the earth without a fight,” she said.

                Quinn sighed. It figured, and he should have predicted it.

                “Fine,” Quinn said. “First we hit up your fallback. You have one, don’t you?”

                Carrie said nothing, but he saw assent in her expression.

                “We need to wait until around noon. There’s a better chance we can see the person who collects the proof. Saul has never come in the early morning.”

                “It isn’t Saul,” Carrie insisted. She walked over towards the bed, turned and stood in front of it.  Her knees seemed to buckle, and she sat down on it, hard. Her folded hands fell loosely between her knees. She watched her hands, held them out, and looked at them, front and back. She reached up and touched her cheek, looking back at Quinn.

                “You’re acting like you don’t care. I get that,” she said. “What I don’t get is why you kissed me,” she said.

                He paused, uncertain.

                “I don’t know,” Quinn said, his voice gravel and smoke.

                “Right,” she said, in that tone of voice she used when she didn’t believe someone at all. Her brow furrowed, she looked him right in the eye. Suddenly, he noticed a neurotic glaze to her look that he didn’t care for at all.

                “You know one of the things that I threw at Jonas, one of the things that pissed him off so bad? That he’s a boring fuck. And you know what? I didn’t just say it to hurt him. It’s true.”

                Quinn felt secretly gratified, but he could also feel his possessive instincts rearing back at thought of her fucking someone else _. Maybe she just needs a better baseline for comparison._ His urges were reaching a boiling point. Carrie talking about fucking, Carrie being unmedicated, and acting unhinged. It was like dropping a water balloon full of jet fuel on top of a blazing campfire. He began to walk slowly towards her, his tether pulled as tight as it would go.  He wondered if he'd tear her clothes off, or just undress her quickly.

                “Yeah?” Quinn said through gritted teeth.

                She didn’t take her eyes off him as he approached. She stood as he got a step away.

                “Yeah,” she said. “When you had my hands tied, and you were kissing me, the only thing I could think was, ‘finally.’”

                His hands, held slightly out and cupped, opened, closed into fists, opened. Again. He couldn’t speak, for fear of uttering filth, depravity, lust, confessions of love. He coughed with the intensity of the repression.  His chest ached.

                Carrie cocked an eye at him, beyond caution, not thinking about her well being, her life, Franny, or anything else.  With manic hyperfocus, she fixed his gaze, and reaching up, touched his cheek with one hand.

                “Think you can do better?” she challenged.

_I don’t care if she’s off her meds. I want this. She needs this._

                With a harsh moan of release, Quinn pushed her backwards, onto the bed. Falling on top of her, he overpowered her with his weight. Her arms came up and twined about him as they kissed aggressively, tongues fighting for dominance.

His mind a red haze, Quinn feverishly addressed their mutual hunger.


	4. Chapter 4

_He'd always wondered: How would she be?_

_Hot, hot and heavy.  And loud._

* * *

 

She was so intent on getting his cock inside of her that she hadn’t even let either of them undress completely. He was going to give her what she asked for, without any more talking or asking of permission – what’s-his-face was a boring lay, so Quinn was going to fuck her good and hard and be damned.   She had it coming.   _It’s what she’d asked for, goddamn it._

But he’d softened slightly through the few minutes of kissing they'd started with.  He'd crushed her to the bed like he was intent on date rape, no doubt.  But he got sentimental after a moment, and also a trifle nostalgic for the present, if such a thing was possible – in the past, he had wanted to kiss her so many times, wanted to hold her, caress her, please her.  Cosset her and spoil her for anyone else sexually, make her say the words he’d always wanted to hear her say.   _I need you, Quinn.  I’m coming.  Please hold me.  Don’t leave._ It was hard for him, remembering who she used to be to him.  Who _he_ used to be.  

He knew things were different now.  He’d kissed her that once, under the stars, and then not seen her again for many years.  During that time, she'd been nothing but a dream, a fantasy.  He'd not touched her until he’d picked up her unconscious body in the woods.  And during the interim, he'd been through Hell.  There had been so much solitude, so much time for evil trains of thought- he was scar tissue, inside and out.  This was not a time to cool off, to slow down to consider deeper issues, his _Id_ insisted.  Certain parts of his anatomy were perfectly fine with proceeding, and fast.  But goddamn his heart: it had an annoying habit of retaining his humanity, and his deep love her for her was in there, no matter how he tried to bury it. That made this night into some thing other than a crazy, indifferent sexual adventure.  It was, at its core, something more special than that.

 _So much loneliness, so much pain._   He remembered flashes of their shared past.  Putting a blanket around her shoulders at the moment she'd emerged from a one-on-one conflict with a terrorist.  How he'd wanted to just pick her up, carry her to the ambulance, and help the EMTs to check her over, stroke her hair, to help ease the pain and anxiety.  He kissed her more deeply,  feeling her tongue mate with his, smelling her scent. He stroked her hair, matted with his own blood, and wondered at its thickness and fullness, how despite the filth, there could be so much of it.  Her eyelashes flickered and touched his cheekbone as he rutted against her crotch, his pants still zipped.  He was so hard that it ached.  He felt like he might burst out of them, or come at once the second she touched his skin.   He looked at her wild eyes, and dared to feel tenderness for her again, something he’d felt before in abundance. Back then, he would have died for her. He’d wanted to touch her like this when he’d visited her in the mental hospital.  Love her, make her feel pleasure, until she realized how beautiful and perfect she was to him.

But that was the past.  And now was now.  She didn’t want to make love tonight, and he knew it.  She couldn’t have cared less how he was feeling about any of that ancient history - she just wanted to fuck.  She removed any doubt a moment later when her hands had gone to the snap on his pants.

“Fucking come _on_ , Quinn,” she moaned.  He broke off the kiss and sat back _._

_Whatever. Fuck it._

But despite his attempt to strip it off, the tenderness remained.  Reaching down, he pulled her shirt carefully over her head, with the knowledge that because he’d carted her off from the woods, she had nothing to change into.  Better not to tear it, then.

She didn’t return the favor.  She undressed him quickly, roughly, without so much as a by-your-leave.  She had reached for his pants, unsnapped and unzipped them, yanked them down and pulled his cock out in almost one motion, her nails raking his thighs as she did so.  His nostrils flared as she’d continued by pulling her own pants and underpants down to her knees in a single snap.  Flinging herself backward on the bed, she’d eyed his prick, which was standing hard at attention.  Her lids were half-closed, her mouth wet, open and welcoming.  Her whole demeanor said, "Come fuck me."

That vision crushed what remained of Quinn’s caution and solicitude.  He grabbed the cuffs of her pants and snatched them all the way off.  With one fist, he tore her panties away, and he leaned into her, watching the mad glaze of her eyes, feeling the heat of her breath.  He folded her body, and pressing her deep into the cheap mattress, he put her ankles on his shoulders, just as he'd wished to do previously.  Her thighs and ass were red hot - it was already better than his bondage fantasy had been.

“Is this how you want it, Carrie? Fast and furious?” he’d asked, panting.  So many questions, so much he wanted to know.  Why him, why now?  Had she thought about him, even once?  Was it just because he was here, and had a cock?  Their sexual magnetism for each other was so palpable, so extreme, that he didn't care.  He nosed his prick to her entrance and felt her deeper heat.  She was wet; embarrassingly so.

Her impersonal answer was female sexual drive personified.  “Come on, come on, _come on,_ ” she’d urged. 

He’d said no more, but slammed himself home.  He had no idea what she was on, or if she’d been having a hot dream, fantasizing or something, or if it was just being off her meds, but after about two or three deep strokes, she was set off. Her knees were bowed back, her back arched, and her head thrown to one side on the cheap, flat pillow.  A second later she sighed, and started making _those noises._  Again. He’d heard them before. _Christ_.  He settled into a deep possessive rhythm, a little too hard, a little too deep _.  Be careful what you ask for, baby,_  he thought, in a rush of delicious sensation. 

In a sudden _extremis_ of pleasure or pain, or both, Carrie suddenly howled. 

“Oh God, Quinn, _oh God_ , where the _fuck_ have you been? _You bastard!_ ”

Her cries became unintelligible as she climaxed, then apparently came _again,_ immediately, squeezing his prick with her slick passage for all he was worth.  He fell onto her body, his mouth on her neck, biting, his hands manacling hers to the bars of the bedframe over her head.  He couldn’t speak, only found himself able to breath heavily into her hair. 

She was as tight as he’d always pictured.  She was coming, squeezing him, and it was driving him right over the edge, Christ, he was right behind her. Stepping up to a nearly frantic pace, he pounded her into the bed in a vicious rhythm, the thought of her pussy wrapped around him - _finally_ \- driving him nearly insane with the pleasure, after all the waiting and the tension.  _Carrie_. 

He surged after her, his heart thudding dangerously in his chest, his heart rate way over the recommended max for a forty year old man, even for an assassin in prime condition.  _I can see why older men die during sex_ , he thought to himself as he burst within her.  The world grayed out a bit.  After a moment, his vision cleared, and he opened his eyes. She was right before him, half unconscious herself.  Her long eyelashes were soaked with tears, and her blue eyes were rolling back in her head.  He continued to thrust as his cock softened, and he released her wrists, his hands busily going back the skin of her belly and breasts, back to those lovely nipples he’d just examined a few hours before, shoving her bra aside and whispering profanity into her ear. 

“You’re right, I _am_ a _bastard_ , and I’m gonna make you come, and come again, I’m going to fuck you pink, Carrie.  You made me wait long enough, and now you opened the door.  Invited the vampire in,” he panted. 

“Agh,” she moaned, turning to one side.  “I was right.”

He pulled out, reluctantly, and sitting back between her spread knees, reached down to stroke her wildly disarrayed hair back off her cheek, arranging it on the pillow with almost prissy care. 

“What were you right about?” he asked, pulling off all the rest of his clothing, and then hers.

“You’d be a wild fuck.  A much better lay than Jonas.  I knew it.”

He snorted once, a Quinn-laugh.  “Yeah, well,” he said.  “I’m out of practice.”  Turning slightly sideways and sitting up, he arranged himself so his prick was hidden between his legs, at least partly.  Just touching her shoulders and hair had him at about half-mast again.  Jesus.

“Pretty fucking good for being out of practice,” she remarked, eyes closed.

He picked up one of her legs, and arranging her comfortably, began massaging the sole of her foot.  She made a contented sound, while Quinn worked on her instep and considered her pink toenails. 

He had done plenty of fucking around over the years, with many different women, all over the world. Once in Brazil, he’d spent a night with a couple of women at once.  That had been fourteen years ago, but it was memorable.  He’d also watched plenty of couples screwing, through scopes, windows, even through keyholes.  Sometimes he felt like a creeper, but it was part of his job. 

As a result, he’d never had to imagine what kind of a fuck Carrie would be. He’d been able to watch.  He’d watched her and Brody once, across the clearing from the shelter, while the traitor had undressed her slowly.  Soft, thoughtful lovemaking, that had been. At least that’s what it had appeared to be, from what he could see of her face.  He’d become transfixed with the obsessed look she gave him, the ecstasy, the tenderness.  He’d watched more than he needed to, and later, with the feeling of a knife slid sideways between his ribs, lain down and tried to rest after another cold tuna dinner.  _I can’t kill him, not now, not ever,_ he’d concluded. _For what it would do to her. Fuck my life_.  He knew love when he saw it.  But hadn’t felt it himself, even while impregnating Julia. Not until that night.  It had been such an alien feeling that at first, he couldn't give it a name.

Then, there had been the months they’d spent tracking Roya and the cell, and the evening that Carrie had spent with Brody in the safe harbor site, as Saul had said, “turning things around.”  Carrie had convinced Brody to work with her, with them, and seduced him to keep him close.  Or so she said.  Quinn’s stomach had churned at the noises she’d made, getting fucked senseless against the wall with the whole team listening in.  Even now, his cock wet with her juices, he felt a jealous, miserable twinge at the thought of watching her, and listening to her fucking that other guy.  The goddamn _noises_ she’d made.  There was nothing feigned about it.  She’d come like a freight train.

And she’d come like that today. But like back then, during the nights at the cabin, during the time in hotel, he still had no idea how she really felt about Brody or anyone else she’d been with.  They’d been through tense weeks on end where she’d disappear into Islamabad, and later (he found out) spend hours with the young medical student, Aayan.  Promising him no end of things, asylum, western medical school, money, safety. But it didn’t take an agent to figure out that the primary motivating force behind everything Aayan did was Carrie – talking to her, looking at her, and eventually, making love to her. It was maddening. She’d been hurt and scared when Haqqani had killed the kid, he knew that. But had she loved him? 

Quinn didn’t think so.  Quinn didn’t really think she loved any of them.  He didn’t know for sure what the hell she felt for him, but he knew that he couldn’t let this opportunity to touch her pass. Someone wanted to kill her, and now because of his actions, there would be a hit out on his life, too.  

A black velvet curtain began to fall in his mind again, and he’d stopped the impromptu massage, his hands large and still, cupping her feet, warming them.  If he had any integrity as an operative, he’d just kill her right now, he thought.  It’d be easy. She was relaxed and unaware, and he knew how to dump bodies, that was for sure. He looked at her throat as her eyes sleepily opened.

“Hey,” she called softly.  “Why’d you stop?”

“Just thinking,” he said.  _If she only knew._

“Well, don’t think.  Just touch me.  I want you again,” she said.  Her eyes reflected total trust, and she looked… different.  It was an odd thing to say, and he couldn't give voice to the feeling. But she seemed less crazy.  Almost calm.

His hand went back to her slender thigh, sliding softly to the top, feeling the softness of her bush with the tips of his fingers, then sliding back down, soothing her, enjoying the silky texture.  Had he seriously been considering killing her a second ago?   

No, no.  He hadn’t, of course not.  He could kill just about anyone else, but causing true harm to Carrie wasn’t something he was capable of.  He just knew what was _expected_ of him, and of her _._ He was expected to receive the name, and make the hit.  That was all there was to it.  He had been ready to fake her death from the beginning.  That’s why he’d made such an effort to bring her back to this abandoned building, hide her existence.  But maybe there was another way, something else he could do.  If he could only clear his mind, consider another route.  Maybe putting her picture in the kill box was the right start, but there was more.  Some other stratagem.  Maybe there was a better way.  A critical image, an important idea was about to coalesce in his mind, but he couldn’t quite see it.

He was fuzzy, he needed sleep and coffee.  And she wanted him again.  It was distracting.  He wanted to make love to her this time, not just fuck her silly.  He shook his head sharply, realizing he missed something she’d said, so preoccupied with his own thoughts he had been.

“I _said_ , you felt so good, and Quinn, I realized how much I’ve _missed_ you.  That’s what I _said_.”

A lump rose in his throat, and he stopped stroking her thigh softly, up and back, and finally pushed all the way up, through her curling hair and into her cleft, finding her center in the wet folds.  He could easily feel her clit: it was completely erect and obviously as sensitive as fuck, because the minute he ran his thumb over it, she sucked in her breath, twitched and tried to angle away from his hands. “Too much,” she hissed.

He crawled up and placed his body between her knees.  Using his other hand to steady her, hold her hip in place, he went back after her, sliding two fingers easily into her soaking wet opening, and pressing her lips to the side, found a way to probe her center that didn’t involve direct stimulus.  She groaned, and bucked her hips.  He repeated his invasion, found a rhythm and a pace she seemed to like.  Quinn noticed the shape of the sounds she made: they went from complaining to a softer pleading.

“I missed you too,” he managed, and wasn’t sure if she caught the tone of it.  But he meant it.  He had nearly cried when she’d not finished their phone conversation from Missouri satisfactorily.  When she rang off, he'd dropped his cell like it had been a rattlesnake, and packed immediately.  He’d gone dark so fast that he felt like he’d been beheaded.  If she’d only known how badly he needed her to say yes.  Or even, “maybe." That would have been good enough for him, those many years ago.

His rhythmic attentions had only gone on for a minute or two, but soon Carrie’s calling took another shape, became more urgent.  Her eyes opened, and she actually begged for him to enter her.

“Please Quinn,” she sighed, opening her legs wider, welcoming him, finally digging her heels into his ass as he mounted. “Please fuck me again.”

There had been too much pain, too much waiting.  Too much plotting and killing, not enough sleep, kissing, or tenderness. Quinn knew that a moment before, he’d had an important thought, something beyond sentiment.  But as usual, the siren call of Carrie’s sex had blown rational thought away.

 _I’ll get it back,_ he promised himself.  _I’ll tell her the truth, and then… if she forgives me, I’ll sit and think.  We’ll sleep, and eat, and I’ll get my head in the right place.  I’ll remember that thought, and finish it._

 _Things could be different,_ he told himself.  His mouth opened to welcome her tongue, and as he found himself completely inside her again, he began to thrust.  Carrie sighed with pleasure, and said his name.  He found himself amazed to hear it coming from her lips, even though his fervent attentions had elicited it.

He took it slower this time, and a half hour passed. Then, an hour.  The only thing that passed for rational thought in his mind was a fragment that started: _Things could be different._

_They had to be._


	5. Chapter 5

Dazzled by the gray depths of their desire, the time spinning out around them, Carrie and Quinn struggled with their demons, with their inflamed sexuality, with their long-buried feelings. But no human emotions this intense and long-suffering were ever put paid to by a single night of loving – the pressure was just too great.  Neither of them acknowledged this, or even raised their head to the notion that this could be both the first and the last time together: this night was too primitive for that.  Their souls were too naked for consideration or future thought. 

                They sucked, fucked and used each other, clutching bodies, seemingly trying to simultaneously kill the other with pleasure, and cease to exist themselves.  It was demanding and energy-expensive: they clasped each other tightly enough to crack ribs, and kissed so hard that lips were bruised, inside and out.  The moaning and squealing sounded more like a slaughterhouse than a den of iniquity.  At some point, he’d said something that both angered and aroused her, and she’d energetically shoved him from the bed, off her body, smacking his face for good measure on the way down. Her hand fell on the same spot on his cheek where he’d previously slapped himself.  Tumbling to the concrete floor, Quinn had been in such a primal state that he couldn’t remember what he’d said to arouse her ire. Carrie had stood and gone after him with her fists, roaring in indignation, calling him an arrogant prick, a blazing asshole.  Aghast, he’d snapped out of his torpor and grabbed her wrists assertively, his face an angry mask. He'd hauled her close to engage in some uncertain retaliation. The anger she'd fomented in his gut whispered to him that he should slap her cheek in return: he'd almost impulsively done so.  But as he’d pulled her in, snarling her name, she’d thrown herself at him, her chest slamming his belly, her arms clutched around his naked middle.

                “It’s alright, it’s alright. I don’t blame you. I hate _myself_ , too,” she’d moaned.  

                Her pain and surrender, her self-hatred, had nearly unmanned him. He'd held her up as her knees sagged, a sound of love and grief emerging from his throat.  Heart wrenching with pity, he'd lifted her and carried her back to the bed. That incident had triggered another round of infernally pleasurable fornication.  This time Carrie was on top of Quinn, orchestrating a slow, tender round of makeup sex, neither of them able to remember who had insulted who, or what they were making up for. Exhausted, out of blasphemous comparisons, ribald egging-on and animal passion, she’d finally fallen asleep on top of him, utterly spent. 

                His prick was still inside her, and as her head lolled bonelessly down onto the pillow, he held still to make this sweet ending last. The air in the cavernous abandoned building was cool and getting colder, but he wanted to keep himself inside her as long as possible. When he finally softened and slipped out, he reached down to the bottom of the bed, smoothly, so as not to awaken her.  With toes and a finger or two, he retrieved the gray blanket and threadbare sheet from the foot of the bunk, and pulled it up over both of them. Carrie didn’t stir, she was literally fucked-out: out cold. The only sign of life was her breathing, steadily and slowly ruffling the hair around his ear and neck. 

                He wrapped his arms around her contentedly, and considered what he’d just done and where they’d go from here.  She really was an amazing woman, all other bullshit aside.  An organization she used to work for sent an old friend to kill her.  And twelve hours later, she’d fucked her potential killer senseless, and fallen asleep on his chest, safe as a baby.  _What the living fuck._

 _Well, she is safe,_ Quinn’s mind rambled as he glided off into sleep himself.  _Very safe. We’re back to where we were, that is, back to where I was._

                With that, he let go of conscious thought and let her weight, warmth and affection push him deeper into the bed, into a deep sleep where no dreams waited.

* * *

Hours passed, with Quinn rousing before Carrie did.  He’d first become aware of the sound of dripping water - that was the shower in his makeshift bathroom, water he’d borrowed from the auto-body shop next door with a carefully-installed diversion line, and a few lengths of PVC and Teflon tape.  He moved a little and felt the warmth and weight of Carrie’s sleeping body on his chest, and felt himself startle.  _Jesus Christ, it really happened._

                She was heavy on his chest in her slumber, but actually still a very light weight for him to lift.  He sat up and carefully moved her, laying her softly on the bunk. She curled up on one side to conserve what was left of his heat, immediately stealing his warm spot like a cat. He smirked, and covering her with the blanket, he went off into the particle-board and curtain partition that passed for a bathroom in his den. 

                He took a piss, banking it off the side to make the least amount of noise possible, then inspected himself in the mirror.  His hair was mussed, but his eyes looked satisfied. An evanescent grin spread itself across his face as he inspected his swollen, bitten lips and bruised cheek. He looked less tired, less pissed off. Happier.

 _Not bad_ , he told himself _. Not that old, not that busted. Not bad at all._

Whistling under his breath, he turned the water on, and washed himself extravagantly in the shower, the grin fading slowly from bravado into a softer smile of remembrance as he thought about the previous night’s gymnastics. After all this time, and after how they’d gotten together again, it was all just too much.

The upside to his improvised bathroom was that he was usually able to shower for as long as he wanted to, without the water cooling even slightly. To top off his night of abandoned sexual pleasure, he’d steamed himself in the hot water for close to half an hour. He hoped Carrie was still sleeping, God knew she needed the rest. He’d let her sleep until…

_When?  What are you going to do now, asshole?_

He didn’t know yet, and didn’t want to think about it.  But he had a camera, some digital recording equipment.  He’d be able to help her make a video, one so she could say goodbye to her daughter.  If it was intercepted, he thought, it’d need to be clear that she was dead, not that she was alive and still looking.  They had to make sure the filth who'd put a hit out on her thought she was deceased. Then, he’d keep the artifice going.

He turned the water off, twisting the brass knob tightly, and toweled off, waiting for the flow to stop. He wrapped the damp towel around his waist, concealing his ass and privates. His lips twisted into something that was not quite a smile as he looked down at himself, completely limp in the morning for the first time in ages.  _Been a long time since I worked it that hard._  Quinn wiped a clean patch in the steam on the mirror, and close-up, inspected the rings under his eyes, which were lighter, and the bruise on his cheek, which was more crimson and angry. 

_An even trade. I’ll take it._

Stepping out of the bathroom enclosure, he looked at the bed, and saw that it was empty.

She was sitting across from him on a stool, her hand on his Glock. Completely dressed, shirt tucked in, hair brushed and pulled back into a bun.  _A fucking bun._

Her hand clutched the stock of the pistol, which was locked and loaded. She watched him warily, eyes bright and a half-smile on her face.

“Good morning, sunshine.  Enjoy your shower?”


	6. Chapter 6

 His pulse quickened, but he kept a poker face. _My own fault that I didn’t see this coming_.  

                Quinn squinted at her and started walking slowly towards the kitchen area, where he kept the coffee. He made as if things were very casual. If he was going to have to disarm and disable her, he’d like to do it without breaking her arm. But as he’d let his guard down, and didn’t really know what she was up to yet, he thought he’d take it slow. He was pretty sure he had enough weapons hidden around to defend himself, starting almost any place in the room. Or, he could use his body as a weapon if necessary, though the results were usually not pretty. This required finesse, not brute force.  

                He ambled to the teakettle. She followed him with her eyes, her head turned, but she didn’t pick up the pistol. Quinn remained calm, at least on the surface.

                “The shower was good,” he deadpanned, answering her question. “You want to have one, go ahead.”

                He took a chance that she was more stable than she seemed. Turning his back on her, he picked up the teakettle.  Removing the top, he held it under the faucet on the workbench.  The chamber with the heating element filled with water.  He watched her out of the corner of his eye for any sudden moves.  He kept his own movements leisurely and predictable.  Was she really that far gone, that off her rocker, that she’d try to kill him, especially after a night like that?  Unloving? Or did she just not give a fuck?  But Quinn knew.  There was nothing wrong with Carrie's heart. 

_This is what happens when she’s off her meds.  Fuck me._

                She didn’t level his weapon at him, stand, or do anything else dicey, though.  Just kept her hand on the stock, gripping it, and stared at him.  It was laying down on the counter, but pointing in his direction. 

                “Coffee?” he asked, doing his best imitation of a waiter.

                “Quinn, I need to know for sure that Saul is behind the hit,” Carrie said.  Her eyes were wide, but least she wasn’t waving his pistol around.  “If I see him come to the drop, I’ll believe you. Then I’ll go. Disappear. But you’re going to show me. Now. This morning.”

                He thought for a moment. He had to get the gun away, get her back on her meds.  Keep her from killing him, keep her safe. There were a lot of moving parts here, and he needed to be free to think, without worrying that she was going to level a firearm at the back of his head every time he turned around.

_Carrie, I swear to fucking God, the things I put up with._

                Something had flickered through his mind last night. He’d been too distracted by her, her smell, her taste, to get it straight in his mind.  He had her here, safe, though his own safety was now in question. But there was no rush to go anywhere: jobs took a while sometimes.  His handler knew that. He understood her urgency, the reason she was sitting next to his Glock, ready to force him at gunpoint to take her to the drop.  She was off-her-meds unhinged, manic, and worried she’d never see her daughter again. 

                But he knew there had to be another way to look at it. He needed to calm her down, and sort out a safety plan for her.  And he was sick of looking at the business end of his nine millimeter. Even lying on the workbench, the opening in the barrel looked like a cannon. It was time to call bullshit on this maneuver; but, carefully.

                He didn’t remark on her demand, just got two coffee cups from under the counter, then retrieved a jar of Nescafé, and two spoons. He then produced a sugar bowl and container of UHT milk. The kettle, having been plugged in a few minutes before, reached a rolling boil and turned itself off with a click. Quinn silently went about making them a cup of instant coffee each, and rolled his eyes up at her.

                She was glaring at him, pissed that he hadn’t answered, her hand still on his Glock. His clip was shoved into it, he noted. And the safety was off.

                “Cream and sugar?” Quinn asked. Her lips pursed in a bitter twist, she didn’t respond, as he doctored her coffee exactly the way she liked it in the morning – he still remembered. One sugar, a bit of cream. He made the same for himself, then sauntered around the counter. He set one of the steaming cups right next to the pistol, slowly, feeling her impatience reaching its peak, seeming completely unconcerned. Finally, seating himself on a stool next to her, he spoke.

                “You get one for free, Carrie,” he said lightly, eyeing her over the rim of the mug.

                She moved slightly. Her hand slid a bit back off the gunstock, her finger away from the trigger and safety.

                “One what?” she asked, frowning at him. She looked sideways at her coffee.

                “One shot. You fucking shot me last night, and I’m still here, helping you. You don’t need to make any threats. Just calm the fuck down. And let me think.” He sipped his coffee again, and was relieved to see her hand slip down onto the countertop, off the weapon. He didn’t dive for it, though. He knew how fast she was, and he didn’t want to break her fingers preventing her retrieval.

                To his profound relief, Carrie sighed, slumped, and took hold of the coffee mug with both hands.  She lifted it to her lips, and sipped it noisily. He exhaled.

                “OK,” she said, her eyes red-rimmed, with a neurotic glaze to them he didn’t care for. “So think.”

                He took a sip of coffee and sat quietly for a moment, letting the tension of the previous confrontation diffuse.  _OK, now_. Finally, Quinn felt safe in reaching out and pulling the gun towards him, putting it slightly behind him and out of her reach, but not picking it up or putting it away. He was unnerved, but he knew her shit. At the moment she wasn’t a threat, not to him, not without the weapon. He leaned to block her view of it, as well as her reach.

                “It’s ok,” he soothed. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure.”

                “Yeah,” she said wryly. “You’re kind of heavy.”

                Quinn hacked a single laugh, looking down at his own bare knees, then back up into her eyes. “Hilarious. Carrie, you don’t need to threaten me. I’ve already risked my life for you. This isn’t the first time,” he said seriously.

                She eyed him over the mug, then looked down. She was visibly abashed. There wasn’t much need to manipulate someone who always gave you exactly what you asked for. She felt ashamed at the moment, but he knew she was still off her leash.

                “We aren’t going to the drop, yet,” he said, as he set the coffee cup on the counter with an audible clunk.

                Carrie frowned and stood, looking over his shoulder at the pistol. “For fuck’s sake, Quinn,” she started.

                Standing, he grabbed the Glock, and with a few efficient motions, removed the clip. Then, he walked to the bed, he tossed the pistol and clip onto the mattress, and picking his clothes up off the floor, he started to dress.

                “First, I want to hit up your fallback. You have one, right?”

                She said nothing for a moment, then made eye contact with Quinn, and nodded.

                “OK. You have spare meds in there? Cash, an ID or two?” She nodded assent. “What else?”

                “Some clothes. A wig. A couple of blank passports, one with a male profile,” Quinn’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t comment.  “And a child’s. And a couple of _Schengen_ visas.” 

                “Sounds good, we’re going to need them. Where exactly did you put it? Not at the apartment or your work, I would presume?” Quinn finished dressing, and walked to the mirror over the sink, apparently checking his hair. He sighed as he used the mirror to watch her. She was up and pacing impatiently, but she didn’t try to approach the bed where he’d left the pistol.

                Carrie snorted. “I haven’t forgotten _everything_ I learned at the Agency. It’s in a storage garage. On the west end of Berlin. _Storengy Deutschland_ , on the Zimmerstraße. There’s no key, just a code for entry into my unit,” she explained. Quinn went back to the kitchen, and inquired a bit more about Franny, Jonas, the location of the fallback box, and what her current work was like. Did she have any enemies? Was there someone else besides Jonas? She had bristled at that. He busied himself making a peanut butter sandwich for each of them as she paced and paced, wiping at her eyes or shoving her hair behind her ear.

                “No, nobody else,” she said mournfully. “Except you, Quinn.”

                “Well,” he said, feeling the ground move under him at such an admission. “I’m here. Here, eat this. You’re going to get weak.”

                He sat down and ate, perched on the stool next to her, watching her behaviors as she gobbled the sandwich. She washed it down with the rest of the cold coffee, and he picked up the dishes and put them in the sink. 

                “Go wash up,” he suggested. “Use the facilities. It’s time to go.”

                She didn’t smile, but looked pleased as she excused herself. She used the toilet, washed her hands and face, and even borrowed Quinn’s toothbrush. Any port in a storm. She looked into the mirror, and straightened up her bun, smoothing the loose hair to the sides of her head with a bit of water. She had a wig that would just fit over it, the way it was. She smelled her armpits and wrinkled her nose. She’d have to use that shower when they got back later.

                As she stepped out of the opening from the bathroom into the main room, Quinn stepped quietly behind her, grabbed one of her arms and twisted it – gently, but tightly - behind her back, and got her in a headlock. Carrie squawked in alarm as he started to frog-march her towards the bunk. 

                “Did you forget who the fuck you were _dealing_ with, Carrie? Do you know what I do for a _living_?  What I’ve _done_?” he hissed, violence and self-loathing evident in every word. Her eyes bulged and her chin trembled as he gripped her, and pushed her across he room, feet skidding on the smooth cement.

                He plopped her down on the bunk, and used his superior weight and strength to force her down.  Before she could react, bite or gouge at his eyes, he turned her and pressed her down onto the mattress. He grappled her arms above her head, and rapidly pulled her hands together as she grunted, strained against him, and tried to roll. He tied her wrists tied to the bedframe – again - with plastic handcuffs. He had become helplessly aroused by this interaction, even though it wasn’t intended to be sexual at all. _Tell that to my hardon,_ he thought: it felt a foot long.

                 “Quinn!” she shrieked. “ _The fuck._  What are you doing?”

                “I’m making sure you can’t harm me, or yourself, while I retrieve your fallback kit and get your meds. You need to start taking them again.  _Today_.” He pulled a second plastic cuff out of his pocket, and double-cuffed her wrists to the metal frame. She was secure.

                “Goddamn it, Quinn!  Don’t do this, take me with you,” Carrie begged, twisting about to get a look at him.

                “How you like to sleep?  Back, or stomach?”

                “ _Fuck you_ ,” she seethed.

                “Right,” Quinn said brightly. He went to the workbench and produced a couple more plastic cuffs, and practically sitting on her, secured her ankles to the bunk’s foot bars.

                “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!  _I hate you_ ,” she shrieked. 

                He looked at her seriously, and almost weakened as he saw her eyes filling with tears. Then, his heart thumping, he explained himself in a way he hoped got through. His bright blue eyes, last night so warm, open, and disbelieving, went cold as an iceberg.

                “You’re unbalanced, Carrie. Off your meds. _You pointed a weapon at me_. Do you know what happened to the last few people who did that?”

                She looked at him resentfully, then, blinking, looked down and away at her own feet. A tear rolled down her cheek.

                “The code, Carrie. For the storage garage with your fallback box. The sooner you tell me, the sooner you get your meds, and get up off the bed.”

                Angrily, grudgingly, she spat the four-digit entrance code at him. She followed this up with a number of vile curses, some regarding the nature of his parentage (including the species), and suggesting impossible acts involving Quinn's body parts and various orifices. Ignoring her manic tirade, he squatted down and picked up the Glock and its clip from where it had tumbled. She turned her head away from him as he donned a shoulder holster, reloaded the weapon, and sheathed it in the holster with the safety on. He pulled a black hoodie over the whole thing, and taking his key ring, stepped to the foot of the bed where she could see him easily.

                Her hair had come loose from the bun during the struggle, and she looked a delicious, hot mess tied to the bed.  _If only,_ he thought to himself. Then he decided that it would be imprudent to complete that thought. _Later, maybe,_ he allowed to himself. But better keep to the program, and get her meds into her quick.

                She made one last attempt as he examined her appraisingly. “Quinn,” she said, softly pleading. “What if I have to go to the bathroom? I’ll stay here in the building, just, please, let me go.”

                What she saw staring back down at her was the cold, reptilian stare of the man who’d been in Syria for the last two and half years, the guy who’d jabbed a syringe into her neck the night before. He wasn’t going to budge, she saw that. An icy smile crept across his face as he answered.

                “I won’t be gone long. Use the time to consider your behavior,” he said, and walked out of her line of sight.

                “Quinn! Stop,” she yelled at his retreating form, then at his shadow. “What is this,” she cursed, “some kind of fucked-up revenge?”

                She heard the door open. He paused in the entryway and answered, putting his dark glasses on as he leaned in to answer.

                “You’ve been a parent for a few years now. Just think of it as a time-out,” he quipped. She could hear the smile in his voice.  _The bastard!_

                He closed the door tightly, but could hear her angry shout follow him as he turned the key. 

_“Quinn, you motherfucker! Fuck you!”_


	7. Chapter 7

_I like to read a murder mystery_  
_I like to know the killer isn't me_

_-Erasure, "Love to Hate You"_

* * *

 

Quinn had offloaded all of Carrie’s necessities into a duffel bag, and headed straight back to the hideout.  He didn’t think she could escape her bonds, but if she did somehow, she’d be riled enough to blow out of there and disappear, never to be seen.  _Right into some killer’s hands._  

 _Or worse, hide behind the door, coldcock me, and take some kind of violent revenge._ She was so smart, but in her current state, she was terribly impulsive.   _And seriously pissed off._

His own feelings were a revolving door of pity, lust and tenderness.  Yes, she was off her meds and messed up.  But he’d always, always wanted to have… something with her.  If not a relationship, at least, crazy sex.  And then he’d remember how he’d felt when he wrote that letter… that awful letter.  He’d said he’d loved her. That was true then.  He had to admit to himself, it still was.  But she was so sick right now… who in their right mind pulls a gun on a black ops specialist?  Pity, desire, and love, around and around like a tilt-a-whirl.  No wonder he felt a little sick.  But he was doing the right thing, he told himself. Mostly. Getting her meds, making her take them. She was messed up, but his head was still screwed on straight, more or less.  And he knew how to help her.

               When he got back to the hideout, he let himself in, cautiously and quietly.  His fears were unfounded.  Carrie was still tied to the bed, right in the position where he’d left her.  She was so still, he thought she had fallen asleep.  But as he stepped closer, she turned her bloodshot eyes towards him.

               He stepped over to her, standing in her line of sight, the morning sun’s glare backlighting his figure and throwing him into dark relief.  Her eyes took on more of a fearful look, as he surveyed her supine posture and the vulnerability of her restraint.  His eyes looked cool, almost reptilian as they scanned her from fingers to feet.

               “Well,” he said pointlessly, “I’m back.” How do you make conversation with your helplessly tied-up former co-worker, who’d probably try to kill you if you let her loose?

               “Let me up,” she whispered.

                “I could do that,” he said, dropping the duffel bag.  “If you want me to.”

                “Quinn,” she started, wanting to convince him of something… but not sure where to start.

                “I mean, of course I’m going to cut your ties.  I’m not some torturer.  Not _now,_ anyway. Though, I _have_ been one in the past. Syria, summer of 2016.  It was not the best summer of my life, let me tell you.  But I _learned_.  A _lot_.”  His voice dripped dark thoughts and memories, all of which were best censored.  But she could hear them implied and see them in the way he held his body, in his pale skin, and the dark circles under his eyes.

                He took a knife out of his pocket and began spinning it around his fingers, open, with no fear of being cut. His hands were big and flat, from her point of view, almost spatulate. But they were incredibly graceful in use. The shiny blade twirled around Quinn’s digits, like a heavy metal drummer showing off during a concert.

                 “Quinn,” she breathed, trying to connect with him, make eye contact. “You’re scaring me.”

                “Oh, you don’t need to be scared, Carrie. I’m not going to injure you. I just asked a simple question. Do you want me to untie you? Or… do you want me to do… something else?”

                Her eyes took on a different look, suddenly, more feral, less frightened.

                “Like what?” she asked.

                She was off her meds, he knew. He knew that consent was consent. He knew that he’d fucked up before, felt her tits when she wasn’t able to give permission. He was feeling guilty now. So if they were going to fall into some erotic play, he wanted her to know it, and make it clear that she was into it. But he also wanted her to feel that frission of anxiety. God knew, she’d caused him enough anxiety over the years. It was a difficult balance.

                “All those times you’ve been in danger. Javadi, Nazir, even that asshole Brody. I was there for you. I’d never let you come to harm. Not even the guy I've become could hurt you.  Not _you_ ,” he emphasized.  But he was still spinning the pocket knife.

               “What do you,” Carrie swallowed. She looked interested, and not particularly afraid. “What do you want to…”

                By way of answering, he reached out. Put his hand directly over her crotch. Pressed down firmly and started to stimulate her. First big, slow, hard circles, possessive, like it was his pussy and she was just borrowing it. Then, he halted.

                “Tell me to stop,” he said. 

                She was breathing heavy, eyes closed.  She’d stopped pulling or fighting.

                He began quickening her again, this time at a faster pace. Slightly more concentrated pressure right where she’d like it, but more _presto_ instead of _moderato_. Kind of like he imagined she’d finger herself, if he had ever been able to watch, in some other way than through his own fantasies.

                “Tell me to stop,” he hissed again, his mouth close to her ear, this time continuing to arouse her while he waited for her answer. Orgasm always calmed her down, after all.  At least that’s what he told himself.

                “Don’t stop,” she said, her voice ragged. “Oh, fuck, Quinn. I need to fucking come.”

                “Ahhh, we have honesty,” he said, finding the pace and pressure that made her raise her hips, jerking them as he got her off right through her clothes. She was pulling on her bonds, but he could tell it wasn’t a desire to escape.

                “Yes, you certainly do. You need someone to fuck you at least twice a day, make you come yourself silly. To pin your beautiful ass to the wall in the shower, fuck you from behind 'til you howl. Yeah, that’s it. That’s what you need."  He finished his vigorous assault and induced her to come, not a loud orgasm but an intense one, he could tell.  She simply heaved her hips into the air, basically fucking his hand, and bit her lip.  Carrie gasped, swallowing what might have been a scream.

                “Oh, _fuck_ , yeah.  There you go.” Quinn said. _Quinn-therapy_ , he thought, complementary medicine for bipolar type I, only to be administered in private, by a trained practitioner who knew the subject well.  His prick was like granite.  He fought down the urge to pop himself loose and present it to her mouth – he knew in her current state, she’d take him in deep.

                Carrie’s respiration was slowing, her eyes were closed.  Her breaths fluffed her hair, fluttered her shirt. 

                “Oh, _fuck_ ,” she said.

                “Still mad at me for tying you down?” he asked, only partially joking.

                Still breathing heavy, she side-eyed him and snapped. "Yeah, kinda.”

                “Well, you pointed my weapon at me,” he said.  “And whatever we are to each other… you can’t pull that shit, and expect me not to react.  I know your shit.”

                She was silent, sulky.  When she finally said something, it didn’t make sense.

               “Side,” she said, making eye contact, her voice petulant.

               “What?”

                “I sleep on my  _side_.  I couldn’t sleep like this.  Let me the fuck up, _now_ , Quinn.”

                He stood, staring down at her. He felt that what he’d done was deserved, if a bit unkind.  And the orgasm, well, that was par for the course.  But he figured he’d punished her and played with her enough at this point.  Some impulse grabbed his guts, though.  He came closer, on his knees next to the bed. She angled her head up and looked at him, her arms tugging uselessly down on the cuffs.

                Quinn’s hand came up, and stroked Carrie’s hair back from her face.  Then slipped down her cheek, cupping her chin.  He could tell she was about to cry again, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

                “I have to confess something,” he said.

                A concerned look overlay the angst.  “What?”

                “When you were knocked out before.  When you were unconscious.  I…. I touched you. Night before last, after the forest.”

                Carrie frowned.  “You what?”

                Quinn gave the pocketknife one last elaborate twirl and reached over her head to cut the plasticuffs.  Carrie left her arms still, above her shoulders.  She studied his face.

                “I felt you up. You were so... I…”

                Quinn shook his head, and lost whatever words he’d intended to finish with.  Reaching down below her knees, he cut her feet loose, too.  She brought her arms and hands down below shoulder level, and flopped them on her chest, without getting up.  “Oh, ouch,” she said at first, massaging the red rings around her wrists.  She winced as Quinn reached out and stroked her from shoulder to wrist.

                “Your arms fall asleep?” he asked solicitously.  “Here, let me help you.”   She nodded, and he reached behind her back, and assisted her into a seated position. How could he imagine that she’d hop to her feet and be ready for combat?  She’d had her arms tied over her head for an hour.

                “I don’t understand,” she said, flexing her fingers and wincing.  “You touched me?”

                “I shouldn’t have. But I wanted to touch you. I’ve always wanted to. So I did,” he finished defenselessly.  She didn’t answer. 

                Quinn stood and went into the sink.  He found a clean glass and filled it with water, and dragged the duffel bag close to the bed.  He set the water down, and zipped the bag open, revealing a jumble of clothing and brown medication bottles.  Carrie was still studying the floor in front of her, frowning.

                “I brought them all,” he said. “Your medicines. Which ones do you need?”

                “The lithium. 900 Milligrams. That one,” she said as he sifted through bottles. Quinn opened it and handed her a capsule, which she reached out for slowly. 

                She sucked air in through her teeth as she reached for the capsule – her hands must have been asleep, and really tingling. When he handed the glass to her, she nearly dropped it. 

                “My fingers,” she said. 

                Quinn came to sit next to her. He held the glass carefully and guided it to Carrie’s mouth as she drank from it, and swallowed the capsule. He continued to hold it while she drained the glass. She dropped her hands back into her lap.

                Quinn cautiously put his arm around her shoulder, and held her. He felt like he was disarming a bomb. What had made him admit that he’d groped her? She’d never have found out.

                “I’m sorry,” he said again. He reached over with his free hand, and circled her wrist, feeling the red marks, touching them softly. “I only did this,” he said, slowly and with difficulty, “because I care.”

                “Did what because you care, felt me up?”

                “No, that’s not what I mean. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.”

                “No, you shouldn’t have,” Carrie snarled.

                After a moment of just sitting and leaning on him, he heard her voice.  She sounded very small and tired - Quinn’s heart wrenched at the sound.

                “I have to go,” she said.  For a moment, he panicked, thinking she was just going to walk out of the warehouse. Then he realized, she meant she needed to go to the bathroom.

                Carrie stood, Quinn standing with her, his arm still around her. She took a wobbly step towards the toilet.  Quinn put his arm around her waist and walked her there, making sure of her footing. He wondered briefly if he should carry her, like he’d wondered the night she’d gone after Abu Nazir in the warehouse.

                He tried to follow her into the bathroom, but she turned and managed to use her stiff fingers to close the curtain. “I got it,” she clipped, then pulled it shut. He made off back to the worktable, and sat on a stool listening to her. 

                A few minutes passed.  He heard her use the facilities. Looking down at his hands as he perched on the second-hand barstool, he saw that he was almost wringing them. He was so nervous and preoccupied with her state of mind that he hadn’t noticed he was doing it.

                She emerged a moment later, pale and wan, her hair still in a fluff around her shoulders. The angry glare had re-emerged from above the bags under her eyes.

                “Are there any other meds you need?” Quinn asked _. Like a tranquilizer, maybe_ , he hoped.

                “No,” Carrie snapped. She went to the duffel bag, and picked it up. Walking over to the counter, she plopped it down, unzipped it all the way and started going through it. Her back was turned to Quinn. He knew there was no weapon in there, or he’d been much more nervous.

                She dug around until she found what she was looking for.  A wig, zipped into a case.

                “So,” she said, turning it around in her hands. “You waited until I was unconscious. Then you felt me up,” she confirmed, and then looked right at Quinn.

                Instead of confirming, he simply apologized again. 

                “I’m sorry,” he said.

                “You should be.”

                “I wouldn’t have hurt you.”

                Carrie snorted. She walked to the mirror over the sink, and started to comb her hair back into another bun. “Sure you wouldn’t,” she snarked. “You’d only propose that we get together, leave the Agency and try to be a family. Then fucking disappear into the desert for two years.”

                Quinn stood, his gut burning with shame. Why did she have to bring that up? He walked to stand behind her, and watched as she reformed her hair into the low bun she’d worn earlier this morning. Carrie fitted the wig over her bun and pulled it down.

                “And now, I’m gone. Right? Time to take me to the train station. You don’t have to worry about talking, or being with me, or anything. It doesn’t matter what you did, you got it off your chest, we had a good fuck, and we’re done. So let’s go.”

                He was taken aback. All he’d wanted from the moment he’d laid eyes on her is to get her out of here, away from him. To make her safe, and then he could go back to being the cold, unfeeling monster he felt himself turning into. Now, she was proposing doing just that – leaving like a puff of smoke. 

                Well, now he'd really done it. She didn’t want to be around him anymore. But he knew she wasn’t ready, because her meds weren’t working. Not to mention, she had really changed her tune, and that concerned him. All she’d said since she’d awoken in the hideout was that she wanted to see Saul. To watch him put a name in the box, prove it was him who wanted her dead. Now, she suddenly didn’t give a fuck.  It didn’t make sense, unless she was just trying to ditch him.

                Truth be told, he wasn’t ready, either. Suddenly the idea of taking her to the train, watching her get on, lose her identity and drop off the face of the earth, become a faceless, nameless person he could never find again… it was unbearable.

                “Hey,” he said feebly. “Hey…” His hands went to her shoulders, standing behind her as she looked at herself in the mirror. The wig she’d settled in place changed her appearance considerably.

                She twitched her shoulders out of his grip, and turned to face him. 

                “Isn’t that what you want? To get rid of me?”

                “No,” he said. The words stuck in his throat. He was unable to clarify, though. If not, what did he want? 

                Carrie’s frown deepened into a scowl that laddered her brow. She pulled her hand back and quickly slapped Quinn on the cheek, right over last night’s bruises.  He dropped his arms to his sides, and didn’t even try to stop her, penitent. 

                “ _That’s_ for tying me to the bed.”

                She slapped his face on the other cheek, a crack that resounded through the acoustic emptiness of the abandoned building.

                “ _That’s_ for feeling me up when I was passed out.” Her voice was low and cruel. She pulled her right hand back for another slap, this time really winding it up. Quinn shut his eyes in anticipation.

                “And _this_ ,” she hissed, as her hand walloped his check on the bruised side again, “This is for leaving me when I needed you most.” His mouth hung open at the statement.

                She tried to turn and walk away, but Quinn caught her shoulders and held her face-to-face. He couldn’t think of anything to say, anything that would keep her in place. So he kissed her again, after a moment, stepping back, his hands on her arms, holding her still. She'd kissed him back, but the angry glare was still there.

               "Don't go," he said roughly.  Her eyes softened, and finally the frown on her face faded into a terribly sad expression.  

               "I thought you were in a hurry to run me off. _Again_ ," she emphasized.

               "No," he said, moving closer.

                "You groped me while I was unconscious, Quinn? What the _fuck_ were you thinking? I used to trust you."

               At the words " _used to_ " he felt a pain in his heart like a lancet slipping through the inner chambers. 

               "I love you," he blurted, surprising himself.

               A quiet settled over the room, like someone had just died.  Carrie turned, grabbed both of Quinn's hands, and made complete eye contact with him. He squirmed, but there was no getting away from her appraising gaze. He didn’t know how he'd ever said it aloud, but it was the right explanation. The one from the letter, the only one.

               "Say that again," she said, moving closer. Their bellies were touching. He pulled her close and kissed her again, the kiss vigorous and deep. He tried to pour his feelings into her the only way he knew how. As he held her closer to him, she relaxed into his embrace, and her head tilted back in abandon.  The wig slid off the back of her head and lay at their feet like a neglected poodle. Her real hair spiraled down out of the loose bun, and Quinn plunged his hands into the golden flood. He kissed her lips, her neck, her chin, the skin around her temple, and slid back to her lips.

                "I love you," he mumbled, and picking her up, carried her back to the bed like he'd wanted to since he'd forced her to come earlier. He was terrible with words, but he'd show her what he meant. He had to make her understand. There wasn’t much time. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

He brought her to the bed, and watched her eyes as her head lay on the flattened pillow, her lips still wet with his kisses. The narrow iron frame cast shadows across her face, as if she were an inpatient again, his inpatient in his personal mental hospital. His impulse to throw her down and tear her clothes off was enormous, but he fought it back down when he heard her voice in a whisper.

                “What did you do?”

                He sat next to her, his expression quizzical, his hand cradling her cheek and ear. Looking at her expression, he tried to feel out what she meant. Was she asking what he did in Syria? It was highly classified. Some of it was unspeakable, even to a fellow intelligence officer. Was she asking what he did _now_ , for a living?  It couldn’t be. She understood the kill box, and how it worked; how divorced he was from his feelings. He was baffled, but her face gave no clue. Her eyes were soft.

                “When?”

                “When you touched me. Before. Show me. And tell me why.”

                A spark of lust flared up in his eyes, and he reached down to yank her shirt loose from her pants. But having full use of her hands again, the numbness of bondage having worn off, she reached down and stopped him.

                “No. Do it slow. Or however you did it.  And you have to talk. That’s the _price_ of your _bullshit_ , Quinn.”

                He squirmed.  He could do anything, kill a man, fuck a woman to an explosive climax, track spies, set up booby traps and build bombs. But when called upon to talk about his feelings, for God’s sake, it was like he was trying to speak another language in a country completely foreign to him. 

                More gently this time, he reached down and pulled her shirt bottom loose. He couldn’t look into her eyes. His feelings of doubt about himself, remorse and shame, love, lust and the twinge of excitement he had gotten from dominating her were now twisted into an awkward mess. The phantom of his former self – the man who’d made it to her father’s funeral just in time, decked out in a new suit, ready to try to make a life outside the Agency – that guy was buried deep now. The level of honesty that night had required had almost cracked his soul open, even though he’d been pretty confident then. As confident as he’d ever get with her, anyway. She was way out of his league. And as for his behavior the other night… he didn’t even know where to start. He had been so dehumanized that he’d just seen her as a desirable object. And now, he’d just have to open his guilty mouth and start talking. He’d let his hands show his feelings, at least as much as she’d let him.   _Christ, I'm an idiot._

                “It wasn’t too bad,” Quinn said, then realized he’d just diminished the importance of fondling her while she was unconscious. But she seemed to understand, and didn’t react. “I mean, I didn’t get very far. Before I snapped out of it,” he clarified. He stroked her hand and took her wrists, laid them above her head, imitating the posture she’d been in the other night. Then he reached under her shirt. He smoothed his hands over her breasts, testing their size and weight, and then lifted her slightly, turning her to one side. He felt for the clasp of her bra, and unclipped it.

                “ _More_ ,” Carrie insisted, leaving her hands where they were.  “No, not more of _that_ ,” she said, as he looked at her body greedily. “I mean more talking.  Explain yourself, Quinn, and we’ll put this to rest. I’m not the only one in this room who’s fucked in the head.”

               He sighed.  She knew him well, and still had an operative’s instincts. If he didn’t comply, she’d get up, and that would be it, “I love you,” or no “I love you.” There was no escape. Quinn writhed internally, and formulated an answer.

               “I pulled your clothes open,” he choked out. “So I could see you.” He repeated that act gently, observing her as her whiteness and softness were revealed to him. He stroked her breasts with his hands, and she shivered as her nipples tightened.

                “Then what?  And why did you do it?  _Talk_.” 

                “You know why,” he stammered. She shook her head. _Not good enough_.

               “I wanted you. I have for so long, I can’t even remember when it started. Almost three years of my life went by without seeing you. Most of it was… cold,” he said. He was really making an effort to describe his life, himself. But it came in fits and starts. It was so hard for him to talk, it was like he had a speech impediment.

               “It was cold. Empty. And then your name was in the box. So I did… what I do. And later here you were, right on my bed, and I had you… tied down… so you wouldn’t shoot me…”

               “Sure, that’s why,” she said, deliciously amused, wriggling her torso, hands over her head.  _For fuck’s sake,_ she was enjoying his discomfort. “And there I was, all helpless. _Keep going_ ,” she scolded. His cheeks flushed. The guy who’d taken command of Islamabad station after the Haqqani infiltration was gone. His air of command had dissipated with his admission of love and guilt. But now, it was too late to back out.

                “This is where I stopped. I realized I was getting… too excited. And I didn’t want to hurt you,” he finished with difficulty. Quinn started to pull her clothes back together to complete his demonstration, hoping she’d be satisfied, hoping she’d just let him go. He was better off in the emotional refrigerator than here. But no - she stopped him.

                “OK, you didn't hurt me,” she said. “But what did you really want?”

                Quinn groaned, and leaning over, grabbed her wrists and put them on his own shoulders, international sign language for "hold me." Leaning in, he pulled her to him, pressed his chest to hers, and let out a sound that was more like a sob than anything he'd made since he came on board with Estes' team back in 2012. He tried to think of something to say. She was demanding more explanation, but he couldn’t come up with anything.

                “Don’t,” was all he could utter, his breath hot into her neck.

                He relaxed into her, and felt her hand come up and pass through his hair, once, and again.  Over and over, soothing him.

                “It’s ok,” Carrie said.  “I think I know.”

                He took a deep breath, and let out a shuddering sigh. How close he’d come to doing something far past what anyone would find socially acceptable, even from a drunken frat boy, or try to dismiss as ribald foolishness. He’d been rutting on the edge of the bed like a stallion, pinching her nipples and drinking in the scent of her like an animal in breeding season. Somehow, he’d stopped. Literally slapped himself. 

 _Because of those words._ Those three little words. He’d written them once, in past tense. He tried not to think about that. Today, they’d come out in the present tense. She’d made him say them twice. He felt like someone had opened his guts with a knife and he was spilling them everywhere.

                “It’s ok,” she repeated.  “It’s been hard.”

                _It certainly has._ He might be able to answer now, if she didn’t push too hard.  Even _for_ Carrie, _with_ Carrie, there was a limit to what he could say, who he could be, what words and ideas he could produce.

                “I wanted...” he started, uncertain. “I wanted to touch you, to see you naked. To feel your hands on me. To know you felt the same.”

                “Yeah,” Carrie said. “I get it.”

                Her hand reached up, caressed the center of his sternum down to the top of his pants, down onto the formidable lump in his crotch.

                “You can do it now. I’m awake. You can show me. Please show me. _Please_.”

                The “please” pushed him over the edge, and he sat back and continued to disrobe her, make her naked.  Smooth and slow, his hands were, like he was trying not to wake a baby.  Like she was still passed out.

               “This is where I left off,” he said, a bit of confidence emerging in his speech. “You want to see?  _This_ is what I wanted to do to you."

               “From the moment you picked me up in the woods?” she inquired.

               “From the moment,” he said, “that you said goodbye in D.C.”

               “Oh, God, Quinn," she moaned. " _Show me_.”


End file.
